Minion

A/N: I'm still not sure how I got talked into writing a second part to this. I apologize for the delay in posting it here; I was just reminded after I posted it elsewhere that I still had this story up at this site.

~*~*~

She loved her friends. Really, she did. But she couldn't help thinking that having to remind herself of said affection several times a day (in order to keep from strangling them) probably wasn't a good sign.

They hadn't done any research on their own in the time they'd been separated, nor had they been particularly inclined to sift through texts once she'd come back into the fold, so they had no clue what or where the remaining Horcruxes might be, let alone how to deal with them when they were finally found.

Hermione could appreciate the good taking a break could do when one was working on such a stressful project, but it seemed Harry and Ron's sabbatical had only reinforced their poor study habits rather than giving them the kick in the arse they needed, and recently she was beginning to think, more and more frequently, that she might fare better on the hunt if they weren't tagging along and distracting her by unintentionally poking at her temper.

She found the other hidden Horcruxes on her own, after all.

It had been with that thought in mind that she snuck out of the tent while the boys slept. She was determined to follow a theory – a lead, if her hunch was correct – that both her friends had been reluctant to the point of being dismissive about.

How they could justify leaving all the research up to her if they weren't going to listen to her conclusions when she was done was beyond her.

No matter.

She could continue on like she had before Harry and Ron had pretended to rejoin the quest; reading, guessing, seeking, and destroying. She refused to let them hinder her progress anymore.

The cave she thought might hide the last remaining piece of the Dark Lord's soul was cold and dank, but she knew she was on the right track when she saw the creature Voldemort had somehow coerced into guarding his treasure.

A Manticore.

Oh, brilliant.

Manticores weren't like other magical creatures. She would have to outmaneuver it with a combination of magic and physical trickery, and due to the many nights she'd spent staying up to make up for Harry and Ron's neglected part in researching, she wasn't sure she had the energy to be adequate enough at either.

Still.

She tiptoed as silently as possible further into the cave. It was darker the more she moved away from the mouth of it, as Manticores had no need for any light, even the minuscule amount that she'd been relying on the moon to provide.

Bother.

The faint outline of a pedestal sat past the beast's large, predatory body and Hermione held her breath as a vague plan began to form in her mind.

If it worked, their victory would be almost assured.

If it didn't . . .

The preparations for a significant failure had been finalized over a month ago. There wasn't room for her to second-guess herself or to regret not being able to say her goodbyes in person.

~*~*~

The Crouch family home wasn't as extravagant as some, but it was by no means a modest abode. Clearly, it had been built by ancestors who didn't rely on low-paying Ministry jobs as their primary source of income like the last couple generations had.

But neither its size nor its moderate grandeur (which seemed a contradiction in terms, but was really quite appropriate) were what stilled her hand on the knocker. That was due to the memories she had of her time there. Of the wizard who lived inside.

She drew in a ragged breath and then held it as she rapped on the door. There was the possibility that he wasn't home, she mused as one second slipped into another, but rapidly disregarded it. She couldn't claim to hope for one thing and secretly pray for its opposite to be true; especially not when it was only herself she was lying to.

She theorized that the recent wounds she'd obtained on the battlefield, and the severe lack of blood they'd caused, were to blame for the conflicting emotions. Or at least, it was as good an excuse as any.

The door swung open and she was greatly surprised when the House-elf who'd cared for her during her time there launched her small body against her legs and embraced her heartily. Her balance wavered and she struggled to remain standing as Winky started blubbering without releasing her hold on her.

She didn't push her away, though.

They'd triumphed that evening. The Dark Lord was dead, this time for good.

She couldn't blame Winky for being excited about it.

The logic that there was no way the elf could have already known of their victory didn't permeate the blanket her exhaustion had swaddled her in until much later.

~*~

The interruption couldn't have come at a better time. The prisoners he'd shared a wing in Azkaban with – not to mention a Dementor's gullet – apparently weren't as daft as he'd originally allowed himself to believe, and they'd taken it upon themselves to come together to crowd his parlor after reading a few buried articles in the Daily Prophet.

Nothing had been stated that specifically pointed in his direction, but enough bits and pieces were there for people who knew the rest of the puzzle to fit them in and see the whole picture. It wasn't surprising that they understood why he'd stolen the Princess away without informing any of them that he knew her; trust wasn't easily given among any of them.

Life had seen to that.

But while they understood his motives for stealing her away, they didn't understand why he'd let her leave.

Let.

As if he'd Owled the Aurors himself and admitted to his crimes.

Not that there had been any, really. None that weren't for Hermione's own good, anyway – even Harry bloody Potter had recognized that, otherwise he'd never have asked her if she wanted to stay.

Of course, the boy hadn't known that her food and drink had been dosed with love potions during her stay there, but that was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

She'd barely consumed a thing while she was a guest in his home, and she'd chosen to go off and fight the good fight even after they'd consummated their relationship.

Barty tipped back the remnants of the brandy he was clutching in his hand. If the person at the door was another uninvited and unwelcome visitor coming to complain about how he'd let Hermione go, he needed something to chase away the headache that would undoubtedly emerge because of them.

He meandered away from the noise of the parlor and toward the general direction of the foyer, only to stumble a step or two backwards when Winky appeared right in front of him, her already bulbous eyes big as saucers with excitement.

Hmm. Perhaps he'd had one nip of brandy too many, he thought. The elf hadn't shown any enthusiasm over his other guests, so there was no reason he could think of that would bring such a look to her face aside for the possibility that he was imagining it.

“Master! Miss Hermione is home!”

He blinked and merely stared at her as he processed the information.

Miss . . .

Oh, gods.

He ran. The glass he'd been holding shattered on the floor behind him when he dropped it in his haste, but he paid it no mind whatsoever.

Hermione was there!

Well . . . home. Had Winky meant Hermione's home or his home? And why would someone come to alert him that she was back at her parents' house? Thoughtful of them, he supposed, but really, it didn't make any sense.

Maybe if he hadn't had so much to drink . . .

He stumbled again as he came to a stop. She was there. She was covered in mud and blood and bruises, but she was there.

Merlin! What had happened to her?

“Hermione?”

His voice cracked.

One bloody word and his voice just had to crack on it.

Lovely.

“Barty.”

She sounded tired. She looked tired.

“What . . . ?”

“It's over,” she said dully. “He's . . . ”

He caught her before she hit the ground; lucky to have even noticed the way her eyes started to loll back in their sockets in his less than sober condition.

Fuck.

“Winky!”

He sounded panicked because he was. The House-elf would understand once she came back from whatever it was she'd scampered off to do and saw Hermione's slack form cradled in his arms.

But then, she'd never been the one who judged him so harshly. His father had been the one who thought he had a precarious hold on his sanity and had jumped at each little show of emotion to prove it.

In retrospect, he was probably right in his assessment, just incorrect in the proper follow-through.

Regardless, he wouldn't be like that with his son.

Hermione would never allow it.

~*~*~

All sobering potions were thick and gritty, and he had yet to try one that didn't have a disgustingly bitter aftertaste. They were worth it, though, and never more so than now.

Seeing the situation clearly, instead of through alcohol-fogged glasses, made his cringe at his inebriated thoughts and his gracelessness while getting to Hermione, but he couldn't help her if he couldn't cast the few healing charms he knew correctly.

His eyes narrowed dangerously upon arriving at her room. Apparently he needn't have bothered worrying, as his other guests alternated between crowding around her and bustling in and out of the door to fetch things for the ringleader of the group.

“Great Circe! What was she doing? Do you know?”

The woman's tone was distressed, and not just a little accusatory, but Barty met her glare without flinching.

“Saving the world, I imagine. She and her friends went out in search of the Dark Lord's Horcruxes, the ones she hadn't already located on her own before I took her. It was bound to lead up to some sort of final confrontation, wasn't it?”

“Mm.”

“How is she?”

“Fatigued,” the witch answered sharply. “I was able to clean her up enough to take care of her injuries, including that unsightly scar across her chest that looked old enough that it should have been removed ages ago, but she'll want a nice hot bath when she awakes, I reckon, and then she needs to rest again.”

He nodded. She could have anything she wanted, so long as she woke up. “Will she be alright?” he asked quietly.

The woman, whose name he would probably have to learn now that she'd saved Hermione, looked positively offended.

“Of course! I told those fools at St. Mungo's that Dark Magic should be in the curriculum for apprentices, and this is a prime example of why. Slicing hexes and other nasties can't be patched up with butterscotch and kisses – you have to fight like with like!”

Barty suddenly had a very good idea why the former healer had been sentenced to have her soul sucked out of her body, but said nothing. He agreed with her. He may not have gone into medi-wizardry as a career, but what she was saying was a simple matter of common sense, and as far as he was concerned, applied to all areas of magic, not just the healing arts.

“She'll need a lot of rest for the next couple of weeks minimum, and lots of good food since it looks like her so-called friends were starving her, but she'll be fine.”

~*~*~

You Know Who Dead! Harry Potter victorious!

Photographs (see page 3) courtesy of the Daily Prophet's own brave man-on-the-spot, Colin Creevey. Warning: these images are graphic. Be sure to shuffle your children off to another room before viewing them.

He swallowed thickly. 'Carnage' was the first word that came to mind as his eyes flitted over the pictures. 'Massacre' was the second.

He had no difficulty with seeing the blood, or even image after image of the butchered bodies that littered the ground, but the knowledge that Hermione had been there in the midst of it and could have wound up far more seriously injured than she had churned his stomach.

“Hmph. Brave man-on-the-spot, indeed. There's no action in any of these! They were all taken after the fact!”

His gaze jumped to the man in one of the chairs across from him. He was reading the Daily Prophet as well. Though they were scattered throughout the house, he imagined they all were.

“Of course.”

Everyone in the room snapped to attention in the direction of the new voice. Matter-of-fact and subdued, it was clear to Barty, at least, that she should still be in bed. He rose from his seat to tell her so, but she continued, effectively silencing him. No one, not even he, would willingly talk over her here; not after what she'd done for them. Not after what she would do.

“It was just the three of us at the actual battle – me, Harry, and Ron. The last Horcrux was destroyed a few days ago and S- . . . someone, a spy in Voldemort's camp, got a message to us to let us know he planned on attacking Hogwarts.”

She relayed the events in the same dull, exhausted tone she'd used since she returned. Given the horrors she recounted, he was beginning to think it wasn't fatigue at all, but shock, that was responsible for her condition.

“Hermione . . . ”

She turned to look at him, her eyes sunken and her voice hollow. “After . . . ”

She swallowed, and it was the first indicator he saw that the shock had been shielding her from having to emotionally deal with the trauma might be starting to slip.

“I thought it would be a good idea if we had proof. The Ministry and the papers . . . they haven't been kind to Harry in the past, you know. I thought there should be tangible evidence that neither one could lie about or sweep under the rug to discredit him.”

“Him.” He sounded unreasonable, he knew, but gods. Everything was about Harry Potter; a boy who would already be dead ten times over if it weren't for the young woman in front of him. “What about you, Hermione? I don't recall either institution being particularly kind to you.”

She let out a mirthless chortle. “They'd have every right not to be in this case.”

“What do you mean?”

The question didn't come from his lips, but from the man who'd been ranting earlier who he'd so quickly forgotten was in the same room with them. Eavesdropping on their private conversation. If Hermione didn't let him have it, he would.

She motioned toward one copy of the now abandoned paper, still open to gruesome pictures he couldn't believe the Daily Prophet had the nerve to print.

“Ron petrified two, and Harry stupified his share before he was able to set his sights solely on Voldemort, but . . . ”

She sucked in a breath, and when she exhaled, it was audibly shaky. Her shock was definitely wearing off.

“I killed them. All those people. I could have cast other hexes, things that would have kept them alive to face Azkaban, but . . . ” She looked at him then, beseeching him to understand. “I just wanted it to be over. My arm was grazed by a stinging hex, and I'm pretty sure it was Bellatrix Lestrange who cast the slicing spell that hit my leg, and after that . . . I lost my patience. My temper. I'd saved a bottle's worth of blood from the Manticore Voldemort had guarding his last Horcrux, and I . . . ”

Dear Lord.

Well. That explained a lot.

Manticore blood was prized by Dark wizards for that very reason; when a wand's tip was dipped in it, all magic cast through that wand was temporarily amplified – even sometimes multiplied so it could hit more than one person at once even, if the person wielding it knew what they were doing and was powerful enough.

There was no doubt in his mind that Hermione was powerful enough, and he would never question her knowledge of anything.

“ . . . I used it.”

Her voice cracked, much as his had the other day, but hers was a pitiful, broken sound, rather than one brought on by sheer adoration. He took a few steps toward her. He wasn't sure she'd welcome his embrace – was fairly sure she wouldn't, as a matter of fact – but he wrapped his arms around her anyway; surprised and pleased when she not only allowed it, but rested her head against her chest as well.

“It was war. You did what you had to do.”

Again, not him. If the interloper didn't stop butting in, he was going to draw his wand.

Hermione pulled away enough to look at the man, but she still remained within the safe confines of his arms.

“I'm sorry, have we met?”

Perhaps it was petty of him, but he reveled in the fact that her tone hadn't been apologetic or even simply curious. It hadn't been entirely icy either, but it had been cold enough that it conveyed her displeasure with his commentary.

Or maybe he was just projecting his own feelings into what he heard.

He preferred to think it was the former, though, since the latter suggested he was losing the precious little sanity he had left.

“Martin Filby, your Highness,” the other wizard said with a bow.

It wasn't a courtly gesture of times gone by, Barty noted, but an actual bow, totally void of any insincerity or playfulness. Which suggested his unwelcome, eavesdropping guest was further gone than he was on the barking spectrum.

He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Anyone subjected to the merciless environment of a Dementor's digestive system was sure to be missing some marbles; with more and more of them rolling away as the years progressed, probably.

Hermione furrowed her brow and then smoothed again as she placed the name. “You were on the list.”

“The list?”

“Scrimgeour . . . He gave me a list of the people whose souls returned to their bodies when . . . ”

When she killed the Dementors.

“It's okay, Hermione. No one in my home is going to judge you for your actions.”

It was true enough, he thought, and he wouldn't even have to threaten them not to do so. If anything, the lot that had effectively taken over his ancestral home would probably praise her for the amount of bloodshed she'd caused.

She cleared her throat and slipped out of his embrace altogether.

Damn.

“Yes, well . . . He said he thought some of you might come looking for me. I thought it was just his way of trying to scare me away from the front lines until . . . ”

Until he'd kidnapped her.

Merlin, he groused sarcastically. This conversation was going well, wasn't it?

“We would have come to you as a group before if Crouch here had bothered mentioning that he knew you,” Martin said.

“I . . . see.” She sounded dazed.

He wondered if he could claim it was because she was tired, and then use that as an excuse to usher her back up to bed and away from certain other parties who wanted to steal his rightful position in her future court.

“No matter, I suppose. We're all here now.”

“You're all . . . ”

She pivoted to pin him with a horrified expression of questioning. Barty held up his hands in supplication.

“They figured out that I took you all on their own.”

If one didn't count whatever help Calpurnia Dingle had given them, or the Daily Prophet's hint-laden articles.

“I've been trying to get rid of them, but they won't budge; especially now that you're actually here.” He stared at Martin. “Bit rude, really.”

The other wizard snorted. “We've as much right to be around the Princess as you do, you —”

Hermione rubbed her forehead and cut the insult off with a single sigh. “I'm not going to want to hear this, am I?”

Barty frowned.

Probably not.

Maybe he should let good old Martin deliver the news that she now had twenty something mentally unhinged, but utterly devoted sycophants waiting at her beck and call.

And that they'd come to the unanimous decision that she should throw over the Ministry and establish a wizarding monarchy.

And that they expected her to head it after doing so.

Oh, yes. He was definitely willing to let someone else impart that information.

“Perhaps you should round up the others,” he suggested to Martin.

Even if the other man was foolish enough to tell Hermione that important decisions regarding her life and future had already been made for her and without her consent, she might not believe him unless everyone was there to back up his story.

And possibly not even then.

~*~*~

She shouldn't have dodged Bellatrix's curse.

Even death had to be preferable to living this nightmare.

“This is a joke, right?”

It had all the earmarks of one of Fred and George's pranks – except for the lack of physical disfigurement. And the small fact that not one person in the room was fighting a smile or a giggle.

Bloody hell.

Her fingertips went to her temples. Barty might have had a point earlier about her needing far more rest before being up and about. She'd listened to a full half-hour of this nonsensical tripe and already she felt exhausted.

“Let me get this straight. You want me to disband the Ministry of Magic.”

Several enthusiastic nods followed her statement.

Brilliant.

She sighed. “First let me say that I don't disagree with you in theory,” she began. “Because the government is in need of some serious reform. But,” she stressed, “I don't think I'm the one to provide it.”

“You have strong ideals and opinions on how to change things for the better.”

She wasn't going to ask how the respondent knew that, but she did shoot a brief glare in Barty's direction. If she'd known their previous debates were going to be held against her, she never would have let herself be goaded into them.

“I also have what's left of my seventh year at Hogwarts – if Professor McGonagall even lets me return – and NEWTs! You can't honestly expect me to plan and lead some kind of rebellion when I'm going to need every spare minute I have to catch up on everything I've already missed this year!”

Barty scoffed, but it seemed to be in amusement rather than mocking. “You've killed two Dementors, you —”

“One,” she corrected. “Its mate died because it couldn't survive without it.”

“You killed a Manticore.”

“Wounded! Not killed; wounded.”

“Enough that you were able to collect some of its blood.”

“Well . . .”

“So you could slaughter an entire army of Death Eaters single-handedly,” he continued as if she'd never interrupted.

She scowled at him. Anger had swiftly replaced the emptiness that shock left behind, and while she still felt guilty for what she'd done, she was more upset now at the circumstances that had forced her to take such extreme actions to begin with.

“Somehow I don't think murder will be on any of the practical examinations,” she replied wryly.

He grinned at her and her ire softened. She'd missed being able to banter with someone who didn't take every little comment personally. Spending the last two months in a tent with Harry and Ron had been severely disillusioning.

To be fair, she'd already been more than a bit frustrated with Ron's slothful tendencies and Harry's too ready willingness to slough his responsibilities when there was someone else around to pick up the slack, but having them for constant company when she'd been working so much more efficiently on her own had bred nothing but contempt.

On her part, anyway.

They hadn't seemed to notice anything was amiss until they were perfunctorily informed that her increasing rants had nothing to do with 'that time of the month'. It seemed to her like that should have been obvious, since they were together for nearly two months and she was short with them practically every minute of every day, but they were boys, and ones woefully uneducated in anything having to do with anything important at that.

“You also came very close to breaking my wards,” Barty said, and she jerked, startled.

“I did?”

“You're very, very smart, my darling. And very powerful. The only reason you doubt yourself is because you have unworthy idiots for friends who have managed to project all their insecurities onto you.”

She parted her lips to protest, but the words never made it to her throat, let alone out of it. If she hadn't overheard Ron making fun of her to cover his own feelings of inadequacy in their first year at Hogwarts, when she was so vulnerable from being away from home, would she have given so much credence to how he thought of her as time went on?

No. Probably not.

Bother.

She couldn't just concede the point, though. Her relationship with Barty, such as it was, didn't work like that.

“If time's really the issue and not an excuse like Crouch thinks it is, you can always take your NEWTs early at the Ministry,” one of the former prisoners said.

“And scout for weak points while you're there,” said another cheekily.

She huffed in amusement. “I already know the weak points, both physically and legally.” She caught sight of Barty's starting in surprise out of the corner of her eye and shrugged in answer to it. “We are – we were – at war. I had to consider every contingency; including those where Voldemort or his people were somehow able to gain control of the government.”

“A true leader acknowledges every possibility and plans for them accordingly,” Martin said.

She could really begin to dislike him if he kept up with talk like that.

“It was a matter of survival, not domination,” she countered.

“Yes,” Barty said, drawing her attention back to him. “Was.”

She sighed again. “I just got through fighting one war. Give me a chance to recover before instigating another, will you?”

The comment was meant to be taken in jest, but the looks of sympathy and understanding that came back to her in response to it made her realize it hadn't been received that way.

Except by one.

Amidst a crowd of people who had just taken her at her word instead of listening to the underlying tone in which it was spoken was a face that reflected humor with something else.

She would have to wait until they were alone to call him on it.

~*~*~

It wasn't the deaths themselves he found upsetting. Casualties were an unfortunate, but expected part of war, after all. The fact that his Aurors hadn't been the ones responsible for the bloodshed did cast a different light on things, though.

Scrimgeour said something crude under his breath. The whole thing put him in an awkward position. Of course he was happy that Harry Potter had actually come through; so were a lot of people. But if he did nothing to address the public response to the pictures the Daily Prophet had the audacity to print, then the system would look inequitable, and the protests over that could very well kick him out of power.

Unfortunately, if he called Potter in to question him as to whom he thought was really responsible . . .

His eye twitched. The public would be outraged that he dared to interrogate a war hero, and they were unlikely to accept the truth of why he was doing it. A change of the guard seemed like a forgone conclusion with that in mind; it was just a matter of picking the person who would be responsible for his downfall.

That neither had graduated from Hogwarts yet wasn't comforting.

~*~*~

A confrontation was inevitable, but he hadn't expected it to take place in his bedroom.

He wondered how she managed to slip past her honorary guards . . .

And how she'd known which room was his.

He also wondered why she had locked the door and applied silencing charms to the room after he came in if she wasn't going to say anything.

She took a hesitant step forward and he found himself mimicking the action. If she wanted to hit him, she was welcome to do so; Merlin knew he deserved it.

If she wanted to curse him . . .

Well, obviously he would prefer physical violence. He knew she could throw a punch, but he also knew how much damage she could inflict with a wand.

To his surprise, she did neither. Instead, she took two more steps toward him and then pulled his face down to hers to kiss him.

Goddess.

Her lips were already slightly parted when they met his; as if once she'd made the decision, she was determined to follow through with it full-force. The sound that sprung from the back of his throat was a needy whinge.

He would have loved to pretend that he was an alpha male and have his body support him by producing a growl, or even a grunt, instead of a pathetic sound of longing, but he'd finally come to terms with his position in the world and, perhaps especially in this case, was more than willing to let Hermione be dominant.

She pushed back, chest heaving as she drew in more air to accommodate her rapid heartbeat.

Alright, maybe he wasn't willing to let her be dominant.

His right hand was still splayed across the small of her back, and he used it to pull her into another kiss while his other hand drove into her hair. She smelled like the French-milled soap his mother used to favor, and belatedly he thought that Winky must have stocked the bathroom closest to Hermione's room with whatever was left of it.

It smelled better on the witch in his arms, reacting with her personal chemistry to construct pheromones no man would be able to resist.

He backed her toward the bed. The bed, he thought, and the inner, totally besotted part of him cheered wildly. He'd lost all semblance of patience last time she'd allowed him into her body, and the location for their frantic lovemaking hadn't been negotiable.

He could take care of her this time, though. He could make her shudder underneath him again and again until she was fully sated and he'd secured his place in her heart, as well as her future court.

The set of robes she was wearing hung loosely on her; a silent testament to how much she had sacrificed her own well-being in exchange for keeping her ungrateful friends alive. He removed her clothes more slowly than he could have because of this, pausing several times along the way to kiss each patch of bare skin that was revealed.

When he finished, he straightened to his full height and looked down at her in askance. He hadn't exactly sought her permission last time and he wanted her to know this meant something to him – that she meant something to him – besides a simple means of release.

He didn't take the fact that she was nibbling on her lower lip as a positive sign.

“Hermione?”

She took a deep breath and then reached out with shaky fingers to unbutton his vest and shirt. “I wasn't sure I should come back here,” she admitted quietly.

“Of course you should have.”

He slid the material off his arms and let the garments drop to the floor, along with the trousers he'd just unzipped. Normally, he would have folded his clothes and set them on a nearby chair for Winky to pick up for laundering later, but he had waited so long for this; so long for her to come home.

He cupped her face with his palms and then leaned down to kiss her. An almost chaste brush of lips quickly gave way to shuddered gasps and sliding tongues; still frantic like before, but this time edged with desperation that he was certain had only been single-sided previously. Their tumble to the bed was inelegant, but unimportant. They were both too caught up in the moment to care whether any part of their actions might be deemed ungraceful.

He kissed her throat and then nipped the spot with his teeth, pressing further against her when she arched her back under his touch. His hands kept her greedily pinned to him, moving from the small of her back, higher and lower, gripping and pulling her closer in accordance with which direction her body writhed, but his lips were the thing holding her attention.

Barty peppered her neck and collarbone with feather-light kisses, then paused as his trail led south to her breasts. Her lack of decent meals had taken its toll on all the curves of her body, but she was still rounded enough to be considered lovely by anyone's standards.

He dipped his head and laid a soft, open-mouthed kiss on one of her nipples. Then he brought the whole areola into his mouth. He suckled it gently, and then not so gently, his tongue flicking over the pebbled nub again and again, until her pleasured whimpers sounded like mews.

He moved to the other breast. She was ready for him now, he could feel the moist heat radiating from between her legs, but his desperation to slake his own need wasn't as important as taking care of hers. His hand skimmed down her ribs and her stomach; anger, not lust, swelling inside him as his touch confirmed what his eyes had already told him.

Merlin help him, her friends had better have come back just as malnourished – no, starved – as she had, or he would make them suffer dearly.

He might anyway just for taking her away from him; for using her to attain their victory for them without giving her proper credit.

His hand slid lower still, and all thoughts of revenge were forgotten as his fingers made contact with velvet soft lips he remembered too well for how little time he'd spent between them.

Slick. So slick.

He rubbed lightly, teasingly, until her hips bucked in a plea for more.

“Barty. I . . . ”

She wouldn't be silenced forever; eventually they would have the discussion he'd been half-dreading since she showed up on his doorstep.

But that was later. And damned if he was going to let her start up the conversation again now.

He braced himself on one hand above her, the other reaching down to grasp his erection and position himself. She gasped as he pushed inside her and he had to remain as still as he could not to reach climax at the feeling of her surrounding him.

“Barty . . . ”

He dipped his head to kiss her again. And then he thrust. It was a slight movement, since he was already buried in her heat, but then he pulled back and thrust again, and her spine bowed hard enough to press the length of her torso against him.

She began to rotate her hips in a slow circle as he surged in and out of her and his teeth found the juncture where her neck met her shoulder. He was able to hold on just long enough to feel her body start to shake beneath him, but then his need became urgent, and his bite sank into her skin as he spilled himself within her.

~*~*~

Harry glared at the man. Head of their government or not, he'd never liked Scrimgeour, and the barely veiled innuendos and threats he'd been volleying about for the last fifteen minutes weren't really encouraging him to start.

“With all due respect, sir, I fail to see why it matters. We were at war. It was kill or be killed. If you wanted the Death Eaters brought in alive, maybe you should have sent some people to help us.”

Arsehole.

He didn't seem as fond of his own voice as Fudge had, but apparently he shared the ex-Minister's taste for the spotlight – regardless of who had actually done the work to get it shining.

Scrimgeour scowled at him. “It matters, Mister Potter, because I'm told that the cause of death – of all the deaths on the battlefield – was . . . unique. No spell can affect that many people at once, and according to the reports I've received, that's precisely what had to have happened.”

. . . Shite.

He'd known from the dazed, detached look on Hermione's face at the time that she'd been the one to take care of what needed to be done, but he'd been so focused on killing Voldemort that he hadn't realized she'd taken care of it in one single blow.

Gods. No wonder she'd been in such a rush to get away after they knew he was victorious.

He'd thought it was a combination of hatred for the media and a guilty conscience that drove her from his side, but hearing that she had cast a spell that robbed so many people of their lives without engaging each and every one of them in a duel . . .

Fuck.

She was brilliant.

Unfortunately, she wasn't a killer by nature, and she was probably having a lot of difficulty reconciling what she'd done with the other, less permanent options she could have chosen.

“I think we both know that someone in your group is capable of coming up with a spell like that, Mister Potter, and that it's not you or Mister Weasley.”

He didn't swallow. He didn't blink. He didn't fidget.

He just stared at the wizard across the desk and prayed that his expression looked blank if he couldn't quite pull off threatening.

“Miss Granger was there with you at the final battle, wasn't she?” Scrimgeour prodded.

“Of course.”

The Minister looked slightly startled at the bald admission, but continued on with the line of questioning anyway. “Was she responsible for all of those deaths?”

“I don't know. I didn't see her do it, if that's what you mean. All of my attention was on fighting Voldemort at the time.”

Scrimgeour gnashed his yellow teeth together. “Do you think she's responsible?”

“I think that's a question you need to ask her.”

He was pleased when he saw the already sallow-faced man's color pale.

It was easy to pick on a boy he still thought was beneath him, wasn't it? But it wouldn't be so easy to pick on a girl who he knew wasn't.

He hoped Hermione gave him hell.

~*~*~

The bowing thing had gotten really old, really fast. So were the nicknames 'Princess' and 'Your Highness'. For all they pretended to want her as ruler, they certainly weren't very good at listening to her. Otherwise, they would have stopped all the future Queen Hermione tosh the second she first glared at them for it.

“I still say poison's the way to go. Knife wounds can be healed so long as nothing major gets pierced; poisons are much harder to counteract, especially the good ones.”

Oh, yes, and they would have stopped all the talk of assassinating Rufus Scrimgeour as well.

There had already been murmurs about taking such drastic action, but when Harry's letter arrived, warning her that the Minister was looking to use her as a scapegoat for the mess the Daily Prophet had caused by publishing all those graphic photographs of the battlefield, those murmurs rose to a deafening roar.

“Why not a knife dipped in poison?” she asked sarcastically, even though the conversation hadn't included her.

Honestly! A person would think having the soul sucked out of them and then returned after having it painfully scorched with digestive acids would have cured these people of making such poor decisions.

Barty had certainly shaped up; even if he did still seem a little on the not entirely sane side sometimes.

“ . . . That might work.”

“More than might. That's a brilliant idea!”

“Which poison to use with which type of blade, though? Some react to silver, you know.”

“Others react to gold.”

“And the rarest react to both.”

“Yes, that is a problem. Hmm . . . ”

She wondered if anyone would notice if she just started knocking her head against the desk. She was trying to compose a letter to the NEWT committee, asking for special consideration so she could take her tests early at the Ministry, and she'd already had to start over twice because her loyal subjects couldn't be bothered to take their homicidal conspiracies elsewhere.

Urgh.

They were annoying, but as much as she might want to, she couldn't put the blame for her bad mood fully on their shoulders. She wouldn't have to write to the Ministry at all if Professor McGonagall hadn't told her she would be happy to have her return — at the beginning of next year.

It was a slap in the face. She'd been an exemplary student; there was no reason for her to be held back a full year just for the professors' convenience. Not when the only reason she'd taken time off was to save their lives.

She wanted an education, yes, but she had to admit that Barty was right. She was smart, she'd kept up on the coursework as much as she'd been able to while she was away, and she'd learned a number of things that her former classmates would never know or need to know. She could probably pass every one of her NEWTs without actually having to go back to school to do it.

“Use a titanium blade,” she said absently. “It doesn't react with anything.”

It wasn't as though they would ever be able to sneak a weapon like that past the guards at the wand-check station anyway; there was no harm in giving them suggestions for their hypothetical assassination attempt when she knew nothing would ever come of it.

“Titanium . . . ”

She set her quill down with extra care, knowing that it would snap like a twig if she let her temper control her actions. “Titanium,” she said, her voice utterly calm.

That would have been a sign to anyone who really knew her, she thought.

“You can find one in any Muggle shop that specializes in knives and swords.”

Which meant they would never find one. They may have lost their minds, but a lot of their prejudices remained intact.

Well, that was the case for some of them, anyway. Not all of the former prisoners were in there because of their deeds against one segment of the population; some were in there just because they were psychopaths who really couldn't tell the difference between right and wrong.

If the two conspiring in Barty's office thought of including them in their scheme, then Scrimgeour might very well be in danger.

It was difficult for her not to grin at that thought.

Really difficult.

~*~*~

“I just don't see where any of you got the idea from.”

He kissed her temple and then nuzzled his face further back to touch his lips to her ear. She was stressing over nothing. She would make an excellent monarch.

He tried very hard to ignore the tiny voice at the back of his head that pointed out if she didn't become Queen, then he wouldn't have to share her. It was fine to be selfish, but cowardice had landed him in the spot he'd been in with the Dark Lord; he wouldn't allow himself to get stuck in a similar position again.

Hermione needed to fulfill her destiny and he needed to help her. End of story.

“I mean, you were the only one who knew me before all that business with the Dementors, and you can't honestly say you ever considered me the perfect candidate for overthrowing the government then, can you?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I wasn't exactly thinking clearly at the time either, if you'll recall.”

“You seemed perfectly cognizant to me. Bigoted and evil, but cognizant.”

She grinned to let him know that she was teasing, and that she didn't really hold his past against him. And that, he thought, was the reason he supported the plan she'd called 'absolute ludicrous' every time someone brought it up.

She had an amazing aptitude for forgiving those who had made mistakes and were willing to learn from them. At the same time, she never forgot, and if anyone was so foolish as to cross her a second time, she was perfectly capable of skewing her moral compass to remove them from this earth.

That kind of duality was rare, and when possessed by someone who already had so strong a hold on magic, it acted as an irresistible lure to anyone who'd been on the receiving end of it and managed to survive.

She sighed. “I don't want to be a queen, Barty. I do agree that the Ministry needs an overhaul, but I don't see why it has to be demolished altogether – or why I would have to be the one to take over the new government.”

“Hermione . . . ”

“Why can't we . . . I don't know. Why can't we just approach the situation more diplomatically? We can make a list of everything and everyone that needs to change, make sure they do, and then we can put someone in charge who will make sure things stay that way.”

She adjusted her position, scooting down a little lower on the bed, so she could roll to her side and use his chest as a pillow. “I'm tired of fighting,” she said softly. “I just want some normalcy for a while. I'm willing to wage one last attack to reach that point, but if I'm put in a position of leadership, that fighting will never end. I'll always be defending myself or my point of view against a fickle and unforgiving public. Is it really so much to ask for a little peace and quiet?”

He played with the mess of frizzy brown curls that spread out on the mattress behind her head, but didn't respond to her question immediately. A little peace and a normal life weren't too much to ask for, not after everything she'd done.

The others wouldn't like it, but it was her choice, and if they were as devoted to her as they claimed to be, they would honor it.

~*~*~

“It's from Scrimgeour?”

“Mm.”

“It was only a matter of time. Maybe he wants to ingratiate himself into your good graces so you don't kill him instead of just giving him the boot.”

Hermione snorted. “Yes,” she said dryly. “I'm sure that's it.”

“We should go with her. Even if her friend wasn't right about Scrimgeour having it out for her, this could be the chance we've been waiting for.”

“Agreed. Her Highness can keep Scrimgeour occupied while the rest of us set the plan in action.”

The plan, she thought sickly. Barty had been able to get them to alter its fundamental goal, thereby changing much of what it had entailed, but the thought of actually acting on it made her stomach twist and churn nervously.

“No.”

What was this? Some common sense? She could have fallen over in shock if she wasn't sitting down. Perhaps Martin wasn't such a bad fellow after all.

“We can't leave her alone and unprotected. The plan is solid, but Scrimgeour can't be so stupid that he won't consider the possibility of taking her hostage if he needs to.”

She didn't even try to hide the facial tic that made the area just under her eye visibly twitch. “I appreciate the concern, but I assure you, I'm quite capable of taking care of myself.”

And if Scrimgeour dared lay a hand on her, then he'd witness that capability firsthand.

Hmm.

Maybe sneaking in the knife they'd actually gone out into Muggle London to procure wasn't as bad of an idea as she'd originally thought . . .

If everything went as they hoped, she wouldn't need it, but it never hurt to be prepared.

~*~*~

If he needed proof that the girl was the next big threat, she'd just given it to him by showing up with an entourage comprised of some of the worst criminals to have ever been caught.

The fact that they were treating her like she was royalty or something was disconcerting, but unimportant. He wanted them gone and he was the Minister, so he got what he wanted.

“I only sent for you.”

He'd never been one for polite greetings or false flattery when there was work to be done. It was a trait that served him well as an Auror, but one he found crippled him in his current position. Being Minister meant being a diplomat, soothing ruffled feathers instead of personally seeing to it that justice was done.

Still, if Hermione Granger thought he was going to make an exception for her when he hadn't for people who had actually contributed money to get him where he was now, she would find herself immensely disappointed.

Apparently she hadn't, because she seemed perfectly at ease with his gruff replacement for 'hello'. In fact, the chit had the nerve to shrug in response.

“They insisted that I not see you alone.”

Her grin was obviously false and it looked bitter on her lips, but her eyes . . . Her eyes shone with that same maddening twinkle that Albus Dumbledore used to be famous for. He narrowed his own.

“Fine.”

He sat down in the chair behind his desk and motioned to his secretary to close the door. His office seemed crowded with him, Hermione, four unexpected guests, and two Aurors sharing the air in it, but it didn't matter. What he had to say wouldn't take long, and then the people who shouldn't be free and walking about wouldn't be any longer.

“Do you know why I asked you here, Miss Granger?”

“I have a good idea. Would you like to know why I accepted?”

His eyes widened for a split second at her gall. He was the Minister! She wouldn't dare refuse his summons! It was totally unacceptable that she would even imply otherwise. He opened his mouth to tell her as much, but she grinned again, and he found himself unable to remember the words he'd been about to use.

This grin wasn't a tiny twist of the lips, this was a wry expression; something that was closer to a smirk and looked like it belonged on her.

It was frightening enough to give him pause. She might look like a dainty, breakable little witch, but this was the same girl who had killed two Dementors and slew Voldemort's army all by herself. He had a very strong feeling that it wouldn't do for him to forget it.

She drew three thick, rolled parchments from her bag and leaned forward from the seat she'd taken to place them on his desk. She nodded to the first one. “By law, you cannot prosecute me for any actions I took during the war. Charter 123, paragraph C, subsection 2. I wasn't acting with the Ministry's knowledge, but I was fighting on its behalf. You're welcome to take the matter to the Wizengamot, of course, but once the list of the dead is submitted into evidence, you have no chance of winning, which will make the public think you're a fool for wasting everyone's time.”

He felt his upper lip pull away from his teeth, but he said nothing.

“That said, the first parchment contains a speech you can give the press in lieu of a prosecution. It apologizes for the Daily Prophet's questionable taste in printing the images they did, instead of just the ones of Voldemort, as was intended. It also lists the names of the dead, so if anyone has a doubt about the validity of the deaths in the Ministry's name, they can be quashed.

“The second parchment contains a number of items the Ministry needs to change now that the focus is no longer on defending itself from an impending attack. It also contains a list of people that were commonly known to support the enemy, but weren't important enough for him to call them to battle. They are to be removed from their positions effective immediately.

“There are others listed as well, whose allegiances are unknown, but whose incompetence has directly led to several near catastrophes. They should be moved to other departments after it is determined where their skills would serve the Ministry best, instead of remaining in the jobs they bought promotions to.”

He gaped at her for a long moment, and then he sputtered. “You – you can't be serious! You have no authority over anything here!”

She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and pinned him with a look that made him feel like ice water was suddenly rushing through his veins. “The third parchment is your official resignation. I'd already anticipated that you wouldn't be willing to implement the changes I recommended, so I thought it prudent to find someone who would.”

He glanced at the Aurors. Why weren't they doing anything? She was openly talking about a coup and they were just standing there!

“I would, of course, have preferred that you be reasonable, but I might remind you that I've gone up against uncooperative people before, and it rarely ends well for them.”

His gaze turned into a full-on glare, and he rose from his seat to shout at the Aurors. Hermione interrupted him before he got a syllable out.

“They're mine, Minister.”

His eyes threatened to bug out of his head, but he slowly sat back down.

“I am not now, nor am I ever, going to resign,” he growled. “I don't know where you got the idea that I would go along with this crazy scheme of yours, but I'll sooner arrest you myself than —”

“Pictures of battlefields aren't the only photographs in Colin's portfolio, Mr. Scrimgeour.”

He froze.

“If you'd like to see some of his other work, copies have been provided along with the third parchment.” She grinned again, and this time it was a mixture of the two semi-smiles from before; wry but bitter, as if she knew she had one up on him but wished she hadn't had to resort to using the tactic. “He owed me, you see; for taking pictures beyond the scope of simply providing proof that Voldemort was truly dead this time.”

He swallowed and then reached for the scroll with a slightly trembling hand. He blanched when he saw confirmation of the worst case scenario that had been playing in his head since the second she mentioned the word 'photographs'.

Fuck.

He set the pictures aside and let his hand drift over to where his quill sat on his desk. He dipped it in the ink well, twice for good measure, and then smoothed out the parchment that contained a resignation he'd barely skimmed over. It didn't mention anything about his indiscretions, whether they be the affairs caught in lurid glory on film, or the soliciting of campaign contributions that the last photo only hinted at. His reputation would remain intact and that's what mattered.

In the space of ten minutes, he'd gone from being confident and at the top of his game to cursing the fact that Hermione Granger had ever been born, let alone that he'd made the poor decision to make an enemy of her.

Damn, but he had seen better days.

Far better days.

So many, in fact, that he couldn't imagine what he'd possibly done to deserve his current stint in hell.

It was a Tuesday, for Merlin's sake! Who staged a revolution on a Tuesday?

The question was rhetorical, of course. He knew precisely who the people in the midst of overthrowing the Ministry of Magic were, and exactly who had organized them; it was why the situation had gone from 'This had to be a joke' status to 'Good gods, they were actually going pull it off' in such a short period of time.

He knew releasing them from Azkaban was a bad idea.

~*~*~

She looked beautiful. Her hair was pulled up, the only cosmetics she wore was a touch of gloss on her lips, and the dress robes she'd opted to wear were a shade of red that was lovely against her pale skin.

No, not just lovely; regal.

Barty grinned. “It's not too late to change your mind, you know.”

Startled, her gaze snapped away from the event – the new Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt's swearing in ceremony – to glare at him. She looked panicked more than anything else, worried that he might actually send some secret signal to the people she'd worked so hard to convince to go out and live their lives because she didn't have any royal aspirations, and she wasn't likely to develop any.

She laughed and backhanded his arm when she saw that he was only teasing. “That's not funny!”

He leaned down to kiss the top of her head, smiling again when she tilted her face up to have his lips meet her own instead.

He'd planned to follow her wherever she would lead him.

But walking by her side, as an equal, was even better.


The End (really)